


Nothing in the Boat but Water

by withpractice_ff



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-15
Updated: 2010-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-21 10:31:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withpractice_ff/pseuds/withpractice_ff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things never work out the way we want them to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing in the Boat but Water

She can feel Alistair's eyes boring into her as she speaks with Arl Eamon about the relative merits of Maric's bastard son assuming the throne, but he doesn't say anything. He stands quietly next to her, panic hiding behind his eyes, and he makes no effort to decide his own fate. Something twists and lurches in her chest, and she finds herself saying, as they both knew she would, that she wants to put Alistair on the throne.

The Arl nods, pleased, and dismisses them both. She thinks to go speak with Anora; maybe the queen will say something to erase the gnawing doubts the Warden has about her and make everyone's lives a bit easier.

She hesitates in the doorway, casting a look back at Alistair. There's a pain creasing his brow, but then it's gone so quickly it may never have been there, a smile smoothing his features. He looks as though he might say something, but she doesn't give him a chance, disappearing into the hall.

  


* * *

  


"What troubles you, dear?" Wynne asks, entering the large and--save for a miserable looking Warden with her head down on the table--empty dinning room.

"What makes you think something troubles me?" the Warden replies, not lifting her head from the pillow of her arms. It comes out muffled, but Wynne is able to decipher it well enough.

The mage shrugs, although the movement is without audience. "My superior powers of perception, clearly."

The young Warden looks up wearing a thin smile. Wynne takes a seat at the table across from her, sliding a mug of hot something in front of her and cupping another in her own hands. At the raised eyebrow, Wynne provides, "It's hot jasmine tea. I find it soothing to the nerves."

The Warden nods and takes a grateful sip. The tea is pleasantly hot down her throat, and the warmth spreads into her belly and then up into her chest.

"So," Wynne says after several minutes have passed in silence. "I'm not going to pry it out of you, you realize."

"I know," the elf replies, her shoulders slumping in something akin to defeat. "The Landsmeet is tomorrow."

"And you've proposed Alistair for the crown."

"It was Arl Eamon, actually," she tries, but then catching Wynne's withering look she amends, "But yes, I'll be supporting Alistair's bid tomorrow."

"Alistair's bid," Wynne repeats. "That's an interesting way of phrasing it."

"This wouldn't be happening without his consent," she snaps, and realizes too late how defensive she sounds. Wynne says nothing, taking another sip of her tea, waiting for her youngling to be out with it already. Another minute, then the Warden says, "He hasn't been terribly forthcoming about it either way, and when he does speak of it he's full of contradictions: no, he doesn't want to be king; oh wait, actually, he's prepared to do what he must; and then hey, isn't that Anora a crazy bitch?"

Wynne lets out a sharp, surprised laugh. The Warden gives her an icy glare and she regains her composure. She says, "So it's good, then, that you've been sitting here alone in the dinning hall rather than trying to discuss it further with him tonight."

"I'm an elf," she says suddenly, bringing her mug to the table with such force that the hot liquid inside spills over the top, pooling on the wood beneath. "You understand what that means, right?"

Wynne frowns, sadness shaping her features. "I do."

"We will do what we must," the Warden says, her voice hushed. "And if I go to him now, I'm afraid we may change each other's minds."

Wynne reaches across the table, covers the Warden's hand with her own. There's nothing else to be said.

  


* * *

  


The Arl gave them separate rooms. She wonders if his obliviousness is real or feigned. When it's late, and the house is quiet, she slips out of her room and into Alistair's.

"What were you doing in there? Sewing yourself a new wardrobe?" he asks as she enters, closing the door gently behind her.

"I don't know how to sew."

"Well color me surprised."

"Don't worry," she says lightly as she crawls into bed next to him, "I'll ask Wynne to mend your underwear."

"Oh, I really wish you wouldn't."

"Too late."

He groans, throwing an arm over his eyes. "Also, may I suggest that we not talk about Wynne while in bed? And especially not Wynne in relationship to my underwear?"

"Done."

He throws her a look, waiting for her to say more. When she doesn't, he says, "Well that was surprisingly easy."

She shrugs, blowing out the candle on the nightstand, and burrows further beneath the covers, rolling into his embrace. His strong, steady heartbeat beneath her is comforting, and she traces the contours of his hip with her fingers, willing herself to memorize every curve, every caress.

"This is nice," he says softly, his voice a low rumble in the quiet darkness.

"Hm?" she asks, distracted by the skin beneath her fingers.

"Sharing an actual bed, like a real couple."

Her grip tightens suddenly on his hip, but he doesn't seem to notice, continuing, "Not to imply that we're not a real couple, of course, but you know what I mean. Like we're normal people who get to sleep in beds every night and aren't able to accurately predict the year of our death."

"The Blight won't last forever. Believe it or not, we will someday once again get to sleep in beds on a regular basis," she says, and ignores the latter comment completely.

"You know what I like about you? Your eternal optimism," he says, his hand gently following the curve of her skull, coming to rest at the base of her neck. It's comforting, the solidity of her body draped over his own, the warmth of her beneath his hands.

"It's not optimism, it's egotism."

"Well, I like that about you, too," he says, and she laughs. He continues, "Once this is all over, we're going to have to get an extremely extravagant bed."

She has to pause, swallowing the sudden lump in her throat. When she is sure of her composure, she asks, "Oh?"

"Oh yes. And the finest silk Orlesian sheets we can find. You can pick the color, but I'm very adamant that they be silk. And Orlesian."

  


* * *

  


Their lovemaking is alternately slow and thoughtful, then frantic and heated. If Alistair has given her any indication that he knows, as she does, that this may be their last night together, it's the way he holds her face between his hands when he kisses her. She has to turn her face into the pillow so he doesn't notice the tear caught in her lashes.

She manages to sleep, her exhausted body winning easily over her troubled mind. She wakes just before dawn, thankful for her reliable internal clock, and slips out of bed.

"Hey," Alistair yawns from the beneath the sheets, squinting to see her in the half-light of the bedroom. "You're not seriously about to leave without kissing me goodbye, are you?"

She turns, her hand on the doorknob, and hopes the smile she gives him is more impish than melancholy. She asks, "I left the money on the dresser, what more do you want from me?"

"Ha ha, very funny. Get back here for a second, would you?" Seeing her glance out the window, measuring the early morning light, he says, "We can sneak five more minutes."

She moves back to the bed, because how could she not? She straddles him over the blankets, her knees falling on either side of his hips. She asks, "And what is it you wanted, my dear?"

He grins, his eyes sly. "What I want, unfortunately, would take a bit more than five minutes. But, as I mentioned, I would also quite like a parting kiss."

She searches his eyes for any deeper meaning behind his words. She wants him to say it now, in the quiet comfort of this room, this moment, so she'll know that it's real, so that she'll walk into the Landsmeet knowing exactly what she has and hasn't lost.

His smile falters slightly, dipping on the right side in uncertainty. He's about to say something, and she knows it's not going to be anything she wants to hear, so she cuts him off with a kiss. She brings one hand to his cheek, the other to his neck, his skin warm and welcoming beneath her own. She leans in, bites at his lips demanding entrance, and when he grants it she kisses him like this is the last time, like the world is ending. She kisses him until they are breathless and grasping at each other, his hands slipping under her shirt and hers twisting in his hair, in the blankets between them.

"What was that for?" he asks when they part, his cheeks flushed in arousal.

She shrugs, moving off of him and onto the floor. Her voice steadier than she had anticipated, she says, "I love you. That's all. Now, I'll see you after breakfast, Warden."

  


* * *

  


It comes when she least expects it, although if she's honest with herself she must admit that she was never quite able to fully convince herself it was coming.

After the Landsmeet, she and the rest of their party are huddled together, trying desperately to talk about anything other than Alistair's looming coronation. When he enters the room, she studies him for signs of a change, anything marking him as a different man than the one she entered that hall with, and she finds nothing. It is Alistair walking through the door, no one else.

She expects him to address the group, or to not acknowledge it at all. What she doesn't expect is for him to catch her eyes and gesture to the corner, superficially out of ear shot of the others. She feels her stomach drop, but she nods and walks over to him, betraying nothing of her apprehension.

When she imagined Alistair breaking up with her--and she did, many times, keeping herself awake at night with thoughts of it--it looked nothing like this. He is short, to the point, and won't quite meet her eyes. She doesn't argue with him, because she agrees with and understands everything he's saying, but it feels... hollow. She is acutely aware of her party behind her, their eyes trying and failing not to land on her back, on his face.

"We can talk about this later," she says in a voice just above a whisper. He frowns, and she turns before he can reply. She immediately regrets doing so, because the look on Wynne's face when she finds it among the others nearly breaks her, and she has to excuse herself to her room.

  


* * *

  


She's pulling her boots back on when there's a knock at the door. She's pretty sure she knows who it is, but she barks anyway, "Whatever it is, it had better be good."

Wynne lets herself into the room despite the questionable invitation. She sits in the chair in the corner, watching the Warden pull her laces taut.

"He could have chosen a better venue," Wynne comments, her eyes searching her friend's face. The Warden says nothing, but her frown deepens. "I have to imagine that's what's gotten you into such a mood, more so than his words."

The Warden looks up at the older woman, her features softening in a way that threatens tears. "You think I'm so heartless?"

"No, but you knew this was coming, and I know you're inclined to prepare for the worst well in advance. I also know that you have little tolerance for disrespect. You shouldn't feel wounded simply because I know you well."

The elf sighs, regains her composure. She says, "The most frustrating thing is that he probably didn't even realize it might be inappropriate to break up with me in front of my charges."

"Your charges," Wynne repeats, a hint of laughter in her voice. "I like the sound of that, I have to admit."

"When he pulled me aside, the second thing I thought to myself was that he has so much to learn. I found myself second-guessing my decision, and what's worse is that I'm completely unable to tell if it's for rational or emotional reasons."

"He does have a lot to learn," Wynne says slowly, looking pointedly at the Warden, "but he's a good, compassionate man with a willing teacher."

"I won't be his puppeteer," she answers immediately, straightening her posture in defiance.

"Of course you won't. That isn't in you, and you will help him to see in you a partner rather than a leader."

"Should a king need such lessons?"

Wynne sighs, her lips curling in a slight frown. "Better that than a queen too convinced of her own brilliance."

The Warden falls back onto her bed, exasperated. "I thought about trying to convince them to marry."

"What?" Wynne asks, whipping her head around to look at the Warden in disbelief.

"It makes sense. In fact, I'm still convinced that would have been the best solution. But I couldn't bring myself to do that to him, not on top of everything else. He really hates her."

"He puts a high value on loyalty, that one."

"Indeed he does," the Warden says with a nod. She indulges herself in one last, deep sigh, then pulls herself to her feet. "Enough self-pity, then; we've got darkspawn to defeat and precious little time in which to do it."

"That's my girl," Wynne says with a smile and accepts the offered hand, allowing the Warden to pull her to her feet.

  


* * *

  


It will take three days and two nights for their army to make it to Redcliffe. She makes it three hours into the first night before she pulls Alistair aside, leading him to the edge of the woods. It's not terribly discreet, but it's not as though the entire army doesn't know what they're talking about.

"I thought we'd already discussed it," Alistair says, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. He steals a glance over her shoulder, to the inviting campfire behind them.

"I'm not going to try to talk you out of it, if that's what you're afraid of," she says, trying to catch his eyes. When they meet hers and come to a rest there, she continues, "But I think I deserve a bit more than the brush-off you gave me in Denerim."

"Brush-off?" he asks, his voice pitching higher as it does when he's upset. "You think that was a brush-off?"

"You spent all of two minutes breaking up with me in front of my charges, I assume because you were hoping I wouldn't cause a scene with so many eyes on us. I thought you knew me well enough to know that sort of thing wouldn't be necessary."

"I didn't-- I mean-- That is--" he stops, frowning. He takes a second to collect his thoughts, then says, "It felt like if I didn't say it at that moment, and as quickly as possible, I would never say it at all. I wouldn't be able to."

She smiles wanly. "Used up all your courage in one quick burst, did you?"

"Something like that." He looks away from her, at his feet as he scuffs his boots against the ground. "I didn't mean for it to come off as an after thought. I certainly didn't mean to invite the prying eyes of our companions." He stops, his eyes suddenly going wide. "Maker, you must have been furious."

"Wynne talked me down."

He chances a glance back up at her face, finds he can't quite bear to look at her just yet, and turns back to his toes. To his feet he asks, "So you're not furious now, then?"

She runs a hand through her hair, agitated. "It's not like I wasn't expecting it, I just thought... I don't know. I thought it would be easier, somehow. I thought we would talk about it and come to the decision together. I certainly didn't think it would happen with a crowd of spectators."

"You were expecting it?" He looks up at her now, his face plainly marked with confusion.

"I'm an elf."

The confusion remains for a second more as he deciphers this statement, then his brows draw together in distress. "You knew this would happen."

That feeling is back, that lurching, twisting feeling in her chest. She asks, "Didn't you?"

"I didn't actually expect to be made king," he answers, a sharpness creeping into his voice. "I'll remind you that I had no interest in being king."

"But if you realized it meant the end of us, that would have been enough to get you to finally voice your misgivings out loud?" she asks, her tone just shy of mocking. "If only you'd had the foresight to look one day into the future, then you would have been motivated to steer your own destiny."

"You're mad at me for this?" he snaps, disbelieving. "I never wanted this! This was not my idea!"

"No it wasn't, and that's the worst of it. If you had ever just said no instead of letting everyone else make your decisions for you, we wouldn't be here right now, would we?"

There is so much anger and anguish in the silence between them that she thinks it might bury her. A branch cracks behind them and they both jump, hands moving automatically to their hips, to their blades.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Zevran says, stepping out of the shadows and into their vision, "but I thought you'd like to know that your voices have risen to such a level that I could repeat your words back to you, if so inclined. I thought perhaps you'd like a bit more privacy than that."

"We were finished here, anyway," she says, then retreats with Zevran back to camp, leaving the future king staring after her.

  


* * *

  


They exchange pleasantries after that, and they spend a not insignificant amount of time discussing strategy, but there is no further mention of their argument that night at the edge of the woods. She's surprised by how easy it is to turn that part of herself off, and any observer would never guess that they'd ever been anything more than friends and comrades.

It's not until they're given Riordan's news that the facade slips. As the elder Warden tells them why it must be one of them who slays the archdemon, the gaze of each gravitates uncontrollably toward the other, and the message behind each set of eyes is unmistakable: I will not let it be you.

She honestly intends to go to her own room after Riordan dismisses them, but instead she finds herself following Alistair into his.

"Morrigan is waiting for you," he says gently. "I'll be here when you're through with her."

If she considered Riordan's news a bombshell, Morrigan's is akin to the Blight itself, the end of the empire. And Morrigan, of course, has no tolerance for indecision. She'll try to convince Alistair, she says, buying herself time.

He can tell the moment she walks into the room that something has changed.

"I love you," she says, before she asks him her question. "You know that, right?"

"I wasn't sure," he admits haltingly. "After the way we left things, I mean."

"I'm not going to stop loving you just because I'm angry with you. That's not how it works."

He smiles faintly, then says, "And yet when you said it, it gave me such a sense of foreboding. What did Morrigan say to you, exactly?"

She tells him of Morrigan's crazy sex ritual, watching his face carefully as she reveals more and more of the details.

"That's crazy," he says when she's finished, mirroring her thoughts. He needs to sit, floored by her words, and moves to the chair in the corner

"Do you want to do it?" she asks, betraying nothing of her own opinion on the matter.

"Do you?"

She shakes her head, dismissing his question. "This is your decision; you're the one who would have to lay with Morrigan and let her steal your child into the forests."

"So you want me to do it," he says, and it comes out as a question. He studies her face, searching desperately for answers.

"I didn't say that. I said that this is your decision, and that's all that I meant. I can't tell you what to do here, and I'll go on with whatever you decide."

His brow creases in thought. She leans against the desk next to him patiently, content to wait as long as necessary for his decision. At length he says, "I don't want to lose you."

She purses her lips, feeling herself about to unravel and willing it not to be so. She lifts herself from the desk, moving across the room, putting much needed space between them. When she's sure of herself, she turns back to face him and says, "It's too late for that."

"If you ask me to do this, I will," he says, and he looks as miserable as she feels.

"I would never ask something like that of you," she says, crumbling, resuming her role as the decisive leader he so desperately needs her to be. "I didn't say no to her on the spot only because I thought you deserved to hear her offer, regardless of what I thought about it."

"What would you have done if I'd agreed?" he asks.

"Hidden in the kitchen, hoping I was far enough away so as not to overhear you." He smiles, and she waits a beat before adding, "I need something from you, though, if you're not going to do this."

"What's that?" he asks, his apprehension evident despite his efforts to hide it.

"You have to promise me that, if anything should happen to Riordan before he's able to slay the archdemon, the duty will fall to me."

"At this point I find myself regretting that we didn't recruit Loghain."

"Promise me," she insists, refusing to be distracted by his attempts at levity. He says nothing, avoiding her eyes. "You are the king of Ferelden. Your life is worth more than mine, regardless of any opinions you may hold to the contrary."

Still he says nothing, staring at her boots, or maybe the floor just in front of her boots. She says again, "Promise me."

"Are you sure we shouldn't just let Morrigan have my demon baby and save us both a lot of trouble?"

"You are impossible," she says, but there's relief in her voice. She goes to give Morrigan the good news.

  


* * *

  


"I see we're short a mage," Alistair whispers as they descend the stairs together, making their way through the assembled troops.

"She was unimpressed by our morality, to put it lightly."

"What will you tell the others?"

"If they care to ask, I'll tell them the truth," she says with an easy shrug. "Although I doubt any of them will find the revealing of her true colors quite as vindicating as you have."

"The woman is a snake. I'd just like to remind you that I knew it from the start."

"Is there anything more attractive than a man patting himself on the back, I wonder?" she asks facetiously.

"Ouch. I keep forgetting how mean you are," he complains, but he's smiling.

  


* * *

  


It is a long march back to Denerim. On the second night she allows Oghren and Zev to get her drunk; it is, after all, likely enough that she may never have another chance for such debauchery. Zevran turns on the charm and compassion, and she very nearly accepts his offer to accompany him to his tent. Nearly, because she feels Alistair's eyes on her all night. Of course, neither of them is surprised when she finds her way into Alistair's tent instead.

"I thought you were trained as a rogue," he mutters as she slides into his bedroll. "I'm relatively sure the entire camp heard you come in here."

"Ssshhh," she chides, burying her face in his chest.

"Do you think it's a good idea to be hungover while fighting darkspawn?"

"I don't get hungover. I'm built like a bear."

"I didn't know bears had a reputation for holding their liquor."

"You're making me fun of me," she says, her voice bordering on petulant. "I don't appreciate it."

"Do you think it's a good idea for you and I to be sharing a bedroll?"

She sits up and he follows suit, the two of them sitting side by side in his cramped tent, facing the same swath of olive green fabric.

"You're not king yet," she says quietly into the darkness. "And tomorrow one of us is going to face the archdemon."

"Riordan--" he starts, but she shakes her head. Life is never so easy.

He lays back down, and when she doesn't immediately follow he tugs gently on her wrist, inviting her to join him. She lays down beside him, and he frames her face in his hands.

"I do love you," he says. "More than anything."

She doesn't feel quite up to talking, so she kisses him instead. And when their bodies come together, they both know it's the last time.


End file.
